


Deja Vu

by Kalael



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: AU, I swear to god this isn't angst, Jack you need to check yourself before you wreck yourself, M/M, Roofies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 10:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalael/pseuds/Kalael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s being pulled along again and he hears Tooth calling over the crowd, calling his name, but his responding shout comes out as a wordless whimper.  The voice laughs and it grates his memory—he knows it, knows the voice, knows the hands, but he can’t place it.</p><p>Where is he again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deja Vu

It’s the way the cloth rubs against his skin that makes him realize that he’s been drugged.

This isn’t the first time it’s happened and that’s why he recognizes the symptoms. His t-shirt feels—not rough, not soft, but he’s paying more attention to it than he would have if he were sober. And he should be sober, he’s only had one drink and a single long-island after the goddamn monster of a dinner he’d eaten shouldn’t be affecting him this much.

“Shit,” he tries to swear, but his tongue is loose and fuzzy and rolls past his teeth before the ‘T’ can come out properly. Everything is hazy and the lights are too bright--everyone is just a silhouette on the dance floor, dancing shadows, and he can’t tell them apart. He needs to find—who did he come here with? Purple and teal. Recognition: he came with Tooth, and Tooth can’t go anywhere without Aster worrying over her so he came too. So they’re here, somewhere, and they wouldn’t have left him alone unless they were dancing.

Okay, okay, they are somewhere on the dance floor. He sways past someone’s grabbing hands, tries to ignore the bodies pressing against him. It’s too hot, too warm, he could never be in the middle of the floor for long because it’s stifling. He likes dancing, likes drinking, but too many people make him nervous.

He can’t breathe.

It isn’t the drugs making his throat close up, it’s claustrophobia. He hates crowded places. He struggles through the flailing arms and legs that seem determined to trap him. Someone gets him in the nose with their elbow, hard, but it barely hurts and he hears a faint apology as he continues to shove through. Warmth on his face, tricking over his lips—his nose is bleeding, isn’t it, he needs to get to the bathroom, somewhere quiet—

A large hand closes over his bicep and pulls him gently through the crowd and then he is free. The air isn’t colder, but it feels less stagnant and there’s space to move. Space to breath. He gulps down air and his head is swimming and the club is blurring and now that he’s calmed down he can feel the haze setting in. The hand is still on his bicep and he scrabbles blindly at it. Another hand—so big, so warm—catches his wrist and he feels immobile.

“Look at you, such a mess. Let’s clean you up, shall we?” Smooth voice, low and warm, burns his ears and sets him on edge. He’s being pulled along again and he hears Tooth calling over the crowd, calling his name, but his responding shout comes out as a wordless whimper. The voice laughs and it grates his memory—he knows it, knows the voice, knows the hands, but he can’t place it.

Where is he again?

The lights go flourescent and he must be in a bathroom. The hands slide to his hips, lift him, and Jack doesn’t mind having his feet off the ground but he doesn’t like someone else controlling it. He jerks, rakes his nails down the hands, and then he is seated on the counter and almost slides into a sink.

“Calm down. Your nose is bleeding, it’s already on your shirt.” The voice scolds and he hears water running. Damp paper presses under his nose and wipes away the blood he can feel sticking to his skin.

“No.” He says miserably, reaching up so he can take care of it himself, but the voices shushes him and continues.

This is humiliating. He can’t make out the figure in front of him even with the bright lights, and he knows he’s drugged but he doesn’t know what to do about it. His grasp on the situation keeps sliding out his reach and every once in a while he leans into the hand that has settled onto the side of his face, trying to keep himself grounded. The hands release him and he falls back against the mirror, cool material pressed to the back of his neck and he looks up at the ceiling. The lights are flickering, cheap bulbs, and then fingers glide down his throat. He jolts, and this time he really does fall into the sink.

“You’re far too jumpy. _Calm down_.” The voice repeats it again, this time with a commanding tone that sends shivers up his spine, and oh he _definitely_ knows this from somewhere. He is helped off the counter and back to the floor, where he stumbles upon making contact and he falls into waiting arms that practically carry him out of the bathroom.

“Jack!” Tooth calls and this time she closer and he can feel her pulling him away from the man behind him. “Jack we’ve been looking for you, are you okay?” She looks him over, notices the blood on his shirt and makes a choked noise. “What did you do to him?” That’s not directed at him, it’s at the man, and he feels more than he hears the disgruntled sigh.

“Nothing. I found him wandering with a dazed expression and bloody nose. I took him to the bathroom to wipe off his face, and I was going to look for his companions but it seems that you have found him first. Good, it saves me the trouble.”

“How can we believe you?” Aster swoops in to save the day, of course, and he finds himself bundled into a pair of strong arms that smell an awful lot like sunscreen and sweat.

“You can only take my word, since your friend Jack there appears to have been drugged. But since I am not interested in being pursued on sexual harassment charges, I will give you my card along with my word. I didn’t do anything aside clean up the blood on his face.” A card is pressed into his hand and he holds onto it like a lifeline, feeling the sharp corners of the cardstock digging into his palm. Aster tightens his hold.

“S’fine. ‘s not lying.” Jack manages a slurred admittance. “Jus’ wanna go ‘ome now.” Everything is slipping away and he’s so, so tired. The voices fade except for one that stands out clearly before his memory goes blank.

“See you around, Jack.”

\--

 

He wakes up with a pounding headache and Aster startles awake at his bedside when Jack lurches over the side and wretches into a well-placed trash can.

“Oh, my god.” He groans between each heave. “The fuck happened to me last night?”

“Roofied.” Aster mutters, running a soothing hand through Jack’s hair in a rare act of kindness. “I should have kept a better eye on you. We’re lucky someone without ill-intentions helped you out.”

Right. The voice and the hands.

“The card!” Jack exclaims. Aster grabs Jack’s jeans off the floor—god, he hadn’t changed during the night, Jack must have been really fucked up—and he pulls out a slightly crumpled black business card that Jack snatches out of his hands. He ignores Aster’s displeased grumbling in favor of reading over the card.

_Pitch Black  
Dealer in Works of Art_

There’s also an address and phone number, both of which Jack recognizes, and he gives a slightly hysterical laugh as he falls into his pillows.

“Shit, shit, shit, I knew I recognized him. Ah, fuck, god, he must think I’m a fucking idiot.”

“You alright, mate?” Aster asks, scooting his chair a bit closer. Jack flings an arm over his eyes and tries to ignore the wave of nausea that rolls through him.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine. Just, fuck. I slept with this guy like a month ago, didn’t think I’d see him again. Shit. Pitch fucking Black wiped down my bloody face.” He was horrified. Not like he’d planned on sleeping with Pitch again, he never slept with the same guy twice, but holy shit was it embarrassing to be caught unawares like that.

“Pitch Black?” Aster sounds just as horrified as Jack feels. “That bloke is meeting me for an art deal tonight!”

“Small world.” Jack grumbles, and he pulls his pillow over his head in defeat.

Small world, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Besteck for helping me with ideas for this <3


End file.
